


loving you is a long river running

by heatsoaked



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, PWP, Self-Indulgent, Winter Break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22602469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatsoaked/pseuds/heatsoaked
Summary: washing dishes: the most romantic of all household chores.
Relationships: Dejan Lovren/Mohamed Salah
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	loving you is a long river running

the floorboards creak and dejan turns around.

he's up to his forearms in hot, soapy water and his watch – the heavy, expensive swiss kind – and a collection of rings are glinting dully on the kitchen island behind him. the lights in the kitchen and the adjoining living room dimmed along with the fading light outside and right now night-time is eating away at the pale blue-pinkish light of dusk. 

mohamed is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his hip cocked. 

"what?" dejan asks. the various spatulas and cutlery clank noisily in the sink as he lets go of the sponge and it floats up to the surface. 

a sly grin steals across mohamed's face. "what?" he echoes obnoxiously.

they stare at each other.

somewhere between making dinner together, wrestling with the oven dejan's hardly ever used and arguing over their respective music choices the absurd domesticity of it all had smacked dejan squarely in the face and now he's stuck washing dishes, wondering when and how exactly they went from bickering colleagues to bickering friends and then finally to this. whatever _this_ is. 

finally, mohamed breaks the silence, pushing away from the doorframe and asking, "what are you doing?" 

dejan snorts. "what does it look like?"

he gets nothing but a noncommital hum in response and turns to see mohamed silently padding across the dark hardwood floor before coming to stop just behind dejan and nudging his face against the sharp protrusion of his shoulder blades. dejan smiles despite himself.

"i don't know." mohamed reaches around him to pick up one of the wooden spoons on the draining board. "this isn't clean." 

then he steps out from behind him, picks up a pan, inspects it with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, puts it back down and says, "this also is not clean." 

dejan watches and listens in exasperated silence to every gleeful _not clean not clean not clean_ as mohamed goes through every item on the draining board before deciding that enough really is enough and crowding mohamed against the kitchen island. it's only when he's got him there and looks down to find mohamed already grinning up at him, dark eyes bright and triumphant, that he realises that this might have been his plan all along.

"you could just ask," he points out. 

but mohamed plays dumb and replies, "ask for what?"

sensing that any further conversation will probably just go around in circles dejan does what's best and kisses him. 

this is more familiar.

his hands are in mohamed's hair, knuckles snagging on knots and tangles in a way he would be sorry about if it didn't make mohamed's eyelids flutter shut. mohamed is still smiling against his mouth, but one practised tug has it melting away into an involuntary gasp. they stay like that for a while until the edge of the grey granite countertop must become uncomfortable and mohamed surges up onto his tiptoes, pushing forward until they're stranded in the middle of the kitchen.

dejan attempts to pull away a couple of times, trying to find room between them to speak but whenever he pulls away mohamed follows, as insistent and self-assured as ever and it takes quite a considerable amount of strength on dejan's part to finally hold him still.

"what do you want?" he asks earnestly. 

mohamed, still struggling a little in dejan's hold, pauses briefly to stare up at him and say, "what do you _think_?" in a tone that heavily suggests that dejan is a lot stupider than he had initially bargained for. it's a familiar tone that both of them like to use on the other and it has the desired effect of nettling dejan quite a bit and rousing him out of his caution.

abruptly readjusting his grip, dejan takes mohamed by the shoulders and backs him against the nearest wall and allows himself to take a little pride when this temporarily wipes the gleeful expression off mohamed's face, replacing it with something softer and a lot less guarded.

his mouth is open and red, kiss-swollen, and dejan stares until mohamed fists a hand in his shirt and pulls him down. 

their mouths bump together _hard_ , teeth clashing against teeth and dejan pulls away briefly to swear and laugh before pushing in closer, kicking mohamed's feet further apart so he can fit himself against him better, and doing it properly. 

it's almost infuriating how easy this is. how easily they slipped into cooking and eating meals together and fucking afterwards. 

mohamed kisses like he's trying to win an argument dejan didn't know they were having. he pushes and pulls away, making dejan chase for what he wants. the way he kisses is as irregular and maddening as the rest of him can be and all dejan can do is sink a hand into mohamed's hair, wrap the other around the back of his neck to keep him close. the arms wrapped around his shoulders dig in tight, similar sentiments. 

between bruising kisses, dejan hisses, "fuck—you are the _worst_. did you know?" and mohamed ducks away to laugh, pressing his face into the crook of dejan's neck.

a pause then, as they sort their feelings out and dejan presses a kiss to mohamed's cheek before focusing his attention on his throat. mohamed's breath stutters out of his chest, gusting hard and fast against dejan's ear as dejan bites and sucks marks against his skin – the tan there faded a little from a lacklustre english winter. 

then mohamed pushes them both off the wall and down the narrow, dimly lit hallway they go. 

dejan grips him by the waistband of his jeans, pulling him impossibly closer even when mohamed complains from under the red cotton of the t-shirt he's currently struggling to get out of. helping him is a convenient excuse to touch and dejan's hands and mouth are greedy and the wall he has mohamed caged against is practically freezing in comparison to the temperature of his skin. mohamed's always run hot and dejan presses his mouth to his sternum, digs his fingers into the fluttering muscles of his back, trying to drink in some of that warmth.

"come _on_ now," mohamed grits out in a voice that's splintering into something that's almost a petulant whine. 

"okay," is dejan's prompt reply and he pulls away and marches down the hall and into the bedroom, stripping off as he goes and leaving mohamed, panting and flushed all the way down to his chest, slumped against the wall. his t-shirt is a dark puddle of shadow on the floor.

it's started raining by the time mohamed's sprawled out in the middle of the bed, naked down to his briefs and unashamedly taking up as much space as he possibly can. he props himself up on his elbows to watch as dejan draws the curtains shut, oblivious to the vague thoughts of telephoto lenses and the career-ruining malevolence of the british tabloids that are trying their best to sour any feelings of lust or want.

"i will _leave_ ," mohamed threatens, sitting up "if you don't come here. _now_." 

dejan tackles him back down, crowding him against the overabundance of pillows and the bed frame creaks under their combined weight. "better?" dejan asks, dropping down a little to allow mohamed to arch up against him.

dizzy with arousal, dejan watches as mohamed ruts gracelessly against him, his eyes squeezed tightly shut but his mouth open and gasping. it's not particularly elegant but it's good. so fucking good. his hands are warm on dejan's shoulders as he drags him further down and dejan groans into his mouth, bracing himself on the mattress with one hand and using the other to cup mohamed's jaw.

this goes on until dejan's head is spinning and he slips further down, sucking a kiss in the dip at the base of mohamed's throat.

mohamed's nails are digging into his scalp, just a shade away from being genuinely painful and if not in revenge then in response dejan scrapes his teeth across mohamed's chest and keeps his attention there until mohamed's breathless and squirming underneath him. 

he'll have little red crescent-shaped marks on his back next day, but right now it feels worth it. 

when dejan pulls away for air and to admire mohamed's kiss-bruised mouth and the muscles jumping in his abdomen mohamed lets out a little huff as if he's almost _annoyed_ at how good he's feeling. it's a funny, very mo-ish thing to do and dejan hides a smile by not-so-gently sinking his teeth into the juncture of mohamed's neck and shoulder, soothing the resulting impression until mohamed makes a high, involuntary keening noise in the back of his throat and dejan pulls away, triumphant.

the glare he gets in response is weakened quite considerably by the hectic flush in mohamed's cheeks and the needy little tremor in his voice when he grits out, "come on, come on—please." 

dejan's so hard he feels light-headed and it's a struggle getting them both completely naked but when they are it's bliss.

skin on skin is different, not just on a literal level. there's an intimacy to this – their own ragged breathing, the rain outside – that makes dejan's stomach clench with something he'd rather not inspect too closely. 

they grind together, uncoordinated, and mohamed's hands fall away from dejan's hair to clutch at the sheets when he finally slips a hand between them.

he keeps his grip mohamed's cock loose, wanting to be gentle but mohamed is having none of it, bucking up into dejan's hand hard enough that dejan has to use his unoccupied hand to push him back down again. he tightens his grip, thumbs the slit and makes it so that it's just a little too much and mohamed shudders, his voice giving out when he moans. dejan surges up again, fucking his tongue into mohamed's mouth and mohamed relinquishes his hold on the sheets to wrap his arms around dejan's shoulders. 

it's when he's got mohamed right on the edge – when his head thumps back onto the pillows, his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown black, offering up the shining column of his throat, when his whole body is drawn taught like a bowstring, arching off the bed – that dejan pulls away, sitting back on his knees to admire him. mohamed cries out, a few frustrated tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. 

"pretty," dejan murmurs, his voice hoarse with need and short on vocabulary. he's said it often enough but it still does the trick and makes mohamed squirm, embarrassed.

there's lube in the top drawer of the bedside table but the bed is big and dejan just a little impatient so he does the next best thing and spits into his own hand, levelling mohamed with a hard stare as he jerks himself off. obviously feeling neglected mohamed pushes himself up, reaching for dejan, but whatever plan he might have had is cut short when dejan gathers up his hands and pins them down above his head. mohamed whines incoherently, thrusting up against dejan's hip and although mohamed's strong, dejan's still stronger and he holds him there with little to no effort until mohamed surrenders some control and lets himself relax into the pillows, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on dejan's face even as his hands skate down his torso. 

dejan takes his time, pushing mohamed's thighs apart while pressing worshipful kisses against his ribs and hipbones.

 _"_ just— _do_ _it._ fuck, i—" mohamed says breathlessly then lets out a frustrated little sound when his english fails him and he bucks his hips up, spreading his legs and tries to make his point that way instead. 

mohamed's almost completely incoherent by the time dejan has got one of his legs pressed up to his chest. his hands are clenching and unclenching where he's still obediently holding them above his head and his hips twitch in abortive little movements as dejan pushes a lube-slick finger inside him. he tries to keep it gentle, too gentle perhaps because mohamed whines – still demanding even in this state – and pushes back, trying to get him deeper. 

but dejan keeps the pace slow and methodical, enjoying the show. 

at three fingers mohamed's chest is heaving and dejan's own patience is starting to fray. he crooks his fingers and mohamed keens obscenely so dejan does it again and again until mohamed is writhing underneath him, his cock is drooling all over the twitching muscles of his stomach.

and then dejan stops abruptly and mohamed sags back onto the bed. his eyes are bright and his eyelashes wet.

"okay?" dejan asks and mohamed nods, mute, then kicks up his other leg and digs his heel into the small of dejan's back, urging him forward.

his grip on mohamed's thigh tightening reflexively dejan ignores the dull warning ache in his shoulders and braces himself with his free hand on the pillows by mohamed's head. reality seems to narrow down to just this. mohamed's dark, blurry gaze weighs heavily on him and the intensity and openness of it is almost too much. dejan sinks in inch by careful inch, the heat of mohamed's body threatening to swallow him whole, and stays still until mohamed goes boneless underneath him, all tension bleeding out. 

he waits, hanging on by a thread, while mohamed adjusts and tries fruitlessly to blink some of the brightness out of his eyes. 

"now," mohamed gasps, his voice pitching up at the end. "now, now—please," and dejan does as he's told, setting up an agonisingly slow pace that has mohamed in tears within minutes.

frustrated little noises spill freely out of his mouth as his hands scrabble across the sheets, helplessly searching for something to hold onto to give himself some leverage and finding nothing. all he can do is swear and dig his heel into dejan's back hard enough that it might bruise.

"fuck me, come on," mohamed demands with as much authority as he can muster. 

things like that always sound cruder when they come from his mouth and it makes dejan's head swim, his breath forcing its way out of his chest in a harsh groan as he finally gives in and starts pushing into him in long, steady strokes. he watches mohamed give himself up to it, awed like he is every time and his control slips embarrassingly fast and too soon he's fucking into him hard and fast, hard enough that mohamed has to reach up and brace a hand on the headboard to avoid being shoved up the mattress. his arms are shaking, his cheeks flushed and wet and dejan sits back a little, pulling mohamed with him, to press his palm against mohamed's overheated cheek.

pressing his thumb against mohamed's bottom lip he says, "look at you—so pretty, so good. so good," and mohamed turns away, pressing his face against his bicep to hide the overwhelmed little sound that forces out of him. 

heat, molten and hot is starting to coil low in dejan's abdomen and he redoubles his efforts until mohamed is canting his hips up frantically, the hand not holding on to the headboard blindly reaching out to grip dejan's shoulder. his whole body is shaking and dejan reluctantly drags his hand away from mohamed's mouth to replace it with a soothing, barely-there kiss.

the fact that he gets to see mohamed like this, gets to take him apart like this is a rush like no other. 

he leans forward, almost completely blanketing mohamed with his own body and ignoring the twinge in his arm – now twisted at a slightly awkward angle – as he lets his hand drift lower, listening, half-delirious and steadily reaching the end of his tether, to the increasingly frantic noises mohamed is making.

dejan's grip on his cock is loose and uncoordinated, the angle too uncomfortable for anything better but mohamed tenses and writhes with a broken moan. it only takes a few strokes before mohamed arches up violently and comes with a cry that takes root in dejan's brain.

mohamed collapses back onto the bed and dejan follows him down, sinking his teeth into mohamed's shoulder. 

the last remnants of his self-control fade away and mohamed mewls weakly – oversensitive and overwhelmed – as dejan angles his hips up and fucks into him, slipping the hand not gripping mohamed's thigh under his back and hauling him up so they're pressed chest to chest, as close as is possible. mohamed's arms find their way back around his shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully, and it's that and the noises still being forced out of mohamed's mouth with every graceless, brutal thrust that finally drive dejan over the edge. 

vision still slightly foggy with the aftershocks dejan lets himself be pulled into a messy, open-mouthed kiss and stays there, quietly worshipping the man underneath him until they've both stopped shaking and he pushes himself up, pulling out as carefully as he can and pressing an apologetic kiss to mohamed's wrist when he whines. but mohamed lets himself be manhandled into a comfortable position with little to no complaint and automatically curls up against dejan's side with the matter-of-fact air of a spoiled housecat claiming the most comfortable spot on the couch. dejan watches mohamed's forefinger distractedly tracing the tattoos on his forearm and hides his smile with a kiss to mohamed's temple. 

they lie there, basking in each other's warmth and company until that isn't enough and the chill of the room finds them.

"you will help with the dishes," dejan says, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. when he looks over his shoulder it's to see mohamed fixing him with a deeply affronted look that surprises a laugh out of him. "you _will_ ," he insists. 

instead of replying mohamed simply holds out his arms and it takes a second for dejan to understand what he wants. 

"i'm not carrying you to the bathroom," he says, but realises halfway through that sentence that he will, in fact, carry mohamed to the on-suite bathroom if that's what he really wants. mohamed knows this as well, clearly. 

"i can't walk," he says slyly. 

his dark eyes are still darker than usual, his cheeks pink and tearstained and his mouth red and ruined. dejan can still see the marks he left on his chest and throat. they'll be gone or at least only very faintly visible by tomorrow. their teammates are good people, but dejan knows that mohamed worries about whatever this is a lot more than he lets on. 

"that good?" dejan asks as he hooks an arm under the crook of mohamed's knees and heaves him up into his arms.

he deserves the punch in the arm that he gets for that and in true gentlemanly fashion only pretends to drop mohamed once. 

in the shower, they wash and make out lazily until they're blinking water out of their eyes and some of the soreness has at least temporarily faded from dejan's shoulders and arms. the water pressure here at dejan's flat is better than at mohamed's and he lets him relish in it for mainly selfish reasons, savouring this closeness while he can and letting his hands wander freely. he maps out the dips, plains and the hard and soft edges of mohamed's body until he committed them to memory and mohamed is shivering under his touch. 

"you'll stay?" he asks unnecessarily, glad for the thick steam partially hiding his face. 

the steam and the sound of the rushing water fill the limited space between them. a space that mohamed closes, bumping his forehead against the dip of dejan's collarbone and following it up with a kiss before replying, "i'll stay—for the dishes, i mean." 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a haiku by Sonia Sanchez ( _Like the Singing Coming Off the Drums_ ):
> 
> _love between us is_   
>  _speech and breath. loving you is_   
>  _a long river running._
> 
> Imagine writing things and thinking, 'hey this is going to be short,' and then it ISN'T because you're STUPID and don't know how to SHUT UP. Yeah, that's what I go through every goddamn time I do this. It's an endless fucking cycle.


End file.
